


Of Secrets and the Sea

by ainewrites (orphan_account)



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Horse Racing, Multi, Thisby, Water Horses, capaill uisce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5229335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ainewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first capaill uisce was spotted about a week ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's about five years after the events of The Scorpio Races; woman now will ride in the races, although only five or six tend to enter as opposed to the forty or so men. Just thought I'd clear that up.

The board goes up at the butcher’s shop tonight.

The thought makes me feel slightly sick: it’s too soon. The first _capaill uisce_ was only spotted about a week ago, and I don’t feel ready. I keep looking at the little jar beside my bed, where the coins I need to enter sit. I have until ten tonight.

Less than four hours to go.

Since I can’t just sit around without going crazy, I pull my riding boots back on and climb down the ladder, landing in the tack room. A horse hears me land and whinnies, expecting me to have something for it; I am notorious for sneaking them treats. Of course, I don’t think my boss minds that much.

The cold stings my cheeks and brings the smell of the low, heavy fog to my nose. I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat, fumbling for my riding gloves. I slip them on, flexing my fingers against the worn, soft leather. On my way out I pick up my iron-tipped riding crop, though I doubt I’ll need it. The smell of the fog obscures the smell of the sea.

Rúnda hears me coming and gallops to the gate, tossing her head. She looks at me with her intelligent black eyes, her nostrils flaring. Her reddish-chestnut coat is bright as a beacon against the gray of the sky.

It takes some convincing for her to let me saddle her. She nips at me as I slide the bit into her mouth and holds her breath as I go to tighten the girth. But all that is forgotten as soon as I open the gate and lead her out. I swing up into the saddle and touch my heels to her side.

She explodes off the mark, tearing down the path toward the road, me leaning low over her back, reins in one hand, crop in the other. When she begins to turn toward the sea I touch the iron tip to her side, directing her back onto the path. She pulls against the bit but does not fight; the call of the sea isn’t strong today, and besides, we’re heading in the opposite direction from it. Or, at least as far in the opposite direction as you can get on Thisby.

We charge toward the sheep pastures and Rúnda clears the fence easily, sending the sheep scattering to the opposite side of the clearing. Her mane slaps against my cheeks; a thousand tiny whips, and I know by the time this ride is over, my cheeks will be red and raw. Rúnda smells of brine and the sea, a scent both intoxicating and terrifying. Rúnda flies over another fence, and I turn her around onto the dirt path that leads back towards the stables. Her hooves pound a steady rhythm against the hard-packed dirt.

Today is the last day I will be able to do this.

We reach the stables and I slow her to a canter, then a trot. She tosses her head, not wanting to go back into the pasture. She just ran over two miles, but she still wants to keep going. Rúnda would run until her hooves fell off, until she could not keep going anymore. It was one of the things I adored about her.

My boss is waiting at the pasture gate, and he steps aside so Rúnda and I could pass. I slide off her, removes her saddle and bridle, and she is off, galloping to the other side of the pasture where she rears. I exit the pasture and prop my saddle against my legs. Sean Kendrick straightens, looking down at me.

I am to Sean Kendrick what he was once to Malvern; a stable boy (or, in my case, girl) who lives and breathes the fierce _capaill uisce._ Unlike Sean, though, I actually liked my employers, my salary was fair, and I lived in the loft above the stables by choice.

I started working for him when I was fifteen, a year after Puck Connolly won them for the first time. It was also the year I caught Rúnda.

It was three days before the Riders’ parade, and I had gone down to the beach when the tide was high and only a small stretch of sand remained above water. I had a cow heart and a bucket of sheep’s blood, and foot-long iron bar. With an iron bar I drew a circle in the sand, leaving it open, and set the cow’s heart in the middle. I tipped the bucket of blood, splashing it on the sand, and I stepped back to wait. It could have been hours or it could have been minutes before Rúnda appeared, beautiful and deadly in the waves, head held high and proud.

She barely even glanced at me, drawn to the scent of the fresh blood. As soon as she leaned down to examine the cow’s heart, I lunged. I closed the circle and spit on it, trapping her inside. Her head jerked up and for a second, our eyes met. And then I realized that, while I may have trapped her, I had no idea how to get her up to Malvern’s to try and sell her. She would be worth good money, I could see that; and I desperately needed the money. Mum was dead, taken by a _capall_ seven years previous. Dad was also dead, though for so long I couldn’t even remember him. I had been left to be raised by a bitter older sister, one who’s sole life purpose seemed to be complaining and dreaming about going to the mainland. She was leaving as soon as the races were over, and I was only coming if I raised enough money to buy a ticket on one of the ships myself. I barely even had enough to clothe myself, let alone buy a ticket.

I broke the stare first, and I did the only thing I could think to do. I went to Sean Kendrick.

If he was surprised to find a shivering girl who smelled of blood and seawater on his doorstep at four in the morning, he didn’t show it. In a rush I explained, and without a word he got his coat and followed me down to the tiny pocket beach where the _capall_ mare awaited, muzzle soaked with sheep’s blood. He took in my trap, and, without the briefest of hesitations offered me a job.

“I’d add boarding her in on the deal,” he offered, and I hesitated. I had always planned on going to the mainland with Alannah, but I loved Thisby, and I loved Thisby’s ocean, and every time I thought about leaving I got a little pang in my chest.

So I accepted. I never told Alannah exactly why I stayed (she hated the _capaill_ almost as much as she hated the ocean), I just told her I was staying. She went to the mainland alone, and I was left with the _capall_ mare I named Rúnda. Secret.

And I’ve been Sean Kendrick’s stable girl ever since.

He follows me into the stables, in that silent way he has, watching me without seeming like he was making sure I did everything right. I put away my tack and dig a peppermint from my coat pocket to give to my favorite of the broodmares, and when I’m done with that he asked,

“Are you doing it this year?”

My stomach starts turning with nerves, and a lump rises in my throat. There was no other reason to train a _capaill uisce_ then to enter the Scorpio Races, but the idea still made my heart pound. I go and watch it every year. And every year I watch men die. I was intending to enter last year, but I couldn’t bring myself to enter Gratton’s. But not this year. I’m eighteen. I can handle it.

I nearly choke on the word. “Yes.”

Sean nods, pats a broodmare nuzzling his shoulder, and heads back to the main house. I go up to my room and stare in my small mirror. My face is flushed, my chestnut hair wild from the wind. I wrestle it into a pony tail. I change into jeans and a hoodie, switching my riding boots to rain boots, and head over to the main house.

I find Puck at the counter, slicing bread and sharp white cheese. She waves at me with the knife before resuming her task. I go to the bathroom, sit on the toilet, and stare at the wall. I check my watch. A little over two hours. I go back downstairs and eat bread and cheese with Puck and Sean, and pretend like I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up.

Afterward, we load in Sean’s old pick-up; a rusted thing that used to be bright red but now has faded more toward dark pink. We squish in and Sean starts up the truck, pulling onto the main road. The entire drive Puck and Sean argue.

I have never known a couple before that argued so much and yet were so clearly insanely in love. Currently they were arguing about Puck’s chosen mount; a dapple gray stallion who was only about three quarters _uisce_. After her first race, a new rule had been added; no normal horses. Naturally, Puck found a loophole, because the only pure-blooded _uisce_ she will ride is Corr.

Sean thinks she should ride Corr; a _capaill_ heals faster than a land horse, and they heal better. Corr can run again, just not as fast as before, nor as sure-footed. But at least he can run. But Puck is as stubborn as an island pony, because she shakes her head and crosses her arms and Sean eventually gives up.

We got to Skarmouth early, so Puck goes to visit her brother at the bakery and Sean vanishes toward the ocean, so I do the only thing I can think to do. I go into the butcher shop. The sound hits me instantly. The board doesn’t go up for another half an hour, but the shop is already filled with men, all yelling over each other. The smell of beer and smoke clings to more than one of them. I huddle up against the counter, wishing I had a presence like Sean or even like Puck. People tend to listen to them, to get out of their way. People either tend to completely ignore me or just think I’m cute.

I’m saved by Peg Gratton, who waves at me from behind the counter. “What do you need, Fallon?”

I actually don’t think we need anything, but I order a pound of beef and watch as she wraps it tightly with butcher paper and white string. I place the money on the counter and she scoops it up, and I’ve just killed another ten minutes.

Twenty more to go.

But by this time, people are starting to line up, eager to claim the spot at the top. I’m jostled as the shop fills, and I tuck my elbows close to my sides. Peg puts up the board ten minutes early. People start to cheer. The sound pounds at my ears and I can’t help but think I’ve made a horrible mistake.

Then Puck’s beside me, dragging her fingers through red hair as she pulls it into a pony tail. Sean is beside her, and I watch as the crowd parts for him without thinking. We’re three from the front.

I watch as Peg writes “Jockeys,” then “ _Capaill”_ across the top of the board, leaving the top space open. She brushes the calk from her hand and gestures the first person forward.

Three names are added, and then Sean steps up. She writes “Sean Kendrick” at the very top, turning to him for the name of his mount. I don’t know why; he’s ridden Riley the last three years, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. He passes over the money and steps back. Puck steps forward and wastes no formalities. “Hurricane.”

“Kate Connolly” goes directly under Sean’s name, but Peg pauses under “ _Capaill.”_ She and Puck stare at each other for a good thirty seconds before she adds Hurricane’s name to the list. And then it’s my turn. I pray that I don’t throw up.

“I want to enter,” I say, and Peg Gratton raises an eyebrow. She knows I haven’t gotten this far before. She writes my name at the bottom of the list. “Who’s your _capall?”_

“Rúnda,” I say, and there it is, in white on the dark gray calkboard. I hand over my money and get outside as fast as I can.

Jockey: Fallon O’Malley. _Capall:_ Rúnda.

It’s official. I’ve entered the Scorpio Races.

Let us hope that this doesn’t end in my death.


	2. Chapter 2

I spend the morning mucking out the stalls of the stable waiting for the tide to lower before Sean tells me to exercise Embers. I think he means take him for a short run along the clifftop, but inside I tack him up and run him inland, following much the same path as I did with Rúnda the day before. Embers stretches out below me, not as fast as Rúnda, perhaps, but still enough to steal my breath away.

 

The scent of the sea is strong today, and Embers is on high alert as we race across the fields. He throws in a buck or a sudden lunge, just often enough to keep me on my toes. His long ears are pricked and listening, though I don’t know how he hears anything above the wind.

Embers is half _capall,_ half island horse; his sire was Corr, his dam, Puck’s little dun mare, Dove. Embers is red as Corr with jet black legs and a love for speed and the ocean. Much like his sire, he gets antsy whenever the breeze brings the smell of the beach up to the stables. Unlike his sire, however, I do not have to worry about him dragging me into the water and drowning me.

I slow him to a trot, giving him a quick pat. He tosses his head, eager to keep running, to run until he’s on the other side of the island, but we have reached our destination.

Brenan has heard me. He leans against the wooden fence of his paddock, hands shoved deep in his pockets and a smile on his face. His reddish brown hair flops into his eyes, like usual.

“Saw your name on the board last night, Fallon,” Brenan says, “still riding that chestnut?”

“You know Rúnda’s name, Brenan,” I say, patting Embers’ neck. He shivers and shakes his head, dancing in place. His coat is damp with sweat but he is still aching to run. I trot him in a circle and Brenan smiles, one side of his mouth curving up. “You gonna be on the beach today?”

“I dunno,” I rein Embers in, and with an irritated snort, he stops. “Rúnda is so well trained she’s basically a land horse now,”

“Piss off,” Brenan says good naturedly, reaching up to stroke Embers. “Seriously, though, you going to be down there?”

“Yeah, but I thought I’d wait until the tide comes in a bit and people start to leave.”

“You’re insane,” Brenan says, “You trust Rúnda too much.”

I don’t trust Rúnda. I don’t fear her, but I don’t trust her, either. She is a creature of the sea at heart; saltwater runs through her veins. She would just as soon drown me as she would race down the beach. But today is the second day; the day when men mount their newly bought _uisce_ for the first time, where men test their mounts and mounts test their men. Where the riders learn how much force they have to use to keep their horse away from the water, where the horses learn how weak their rider actually is.

There will be blood on the sand by the end of today. And I really don’t want to witness the act that spills it. But I can’t miss a day training Rúnda; I have never ridden her down the beach while the October sea laps against the shores. I would rather lose her today than the day of the race.

But I don’t want to explain this to Brenan, oldest friend he may be, so I just say I’ll watch for him down there and turn Embers toward home. We gallop all the way back.

It is late early afternoon by the time I saddle Rúnda and ride her down the path toward the beach. It is a dangerous day to be on the beach for the first time. The smell of the ocean is strong on the wind, and it clings to everything and everyone, much like the scent of blood.

The sand crunches beneath Rúnda’s hooves as we step onto the beach. She is quivering below me, straining toward the sea, but I tie knots in threes and sevens in her mane and croon softly in her ear. She stills, but her eyes are still wide, and she still breathes heavily.

“Fallon O’Malley!”

Kesley Donnelley sits astride his huge black mare Dorcha, waving wildly at me. I wave back, somewhat timidly, and he takes that as an invitation to come over. Dorcha huffs at Rúnda, and Rúnda pins her ears. Kesley’s grin takes up his entire face as he leans forward, resting his elbow on the front of his saddle. I see Dorcha register this, and I hope that Kesley knows what he’s doing.

“You’ve managed to get up the guts to finally enter, have you?” He looks Rúnda up and down and whistles low. “Gorgeous beast, you have there.” Rúnda knows she has been complimented and brings her head up proudly. Kesley laughs.

“Tell you what, I’ll race you down the beach, quick like. Dorcha and I have been here for a few hours, though, so take it easy on us. She’s kind of tired.”

The dark mare does not look tired, she looks as if she wants to rip one of Rúnda’s ears off her body. Kesley does not wait for my answer and instead spurs Dorcha and she springs forward, flying down the beach. Rúnda takes barely a touch before she following.

But soon, the horses loose interest in the race and instead start heading at an angle toward the sea. I touch the tip of my crop to Rúnda’s side, the side that is facing the ocean, and whisper softly in her ear. She dances and tosses her head, but eventually falls back into a straight line. Out of the corner of my eye I see Kesley tie three red ribbons in Dorcha’s mane, and it is apparently enough because she stops heading toward the ocean as well.

And, suddenly, there’s a third horse beside us, this one bigger than Dorcha, and white to her black. Brenan leans low over Aingeal’s back, though he catches my eye and grins. Aingeal eyes me as well, and I cannot stop the shiver from rushing down my spine.

I have not been this afraid of a _capall uisce_ since the piebald mare of five years previous. Despite his name, Aingeal is not remotely angelic. I have seen him tear apart a barn cat that was unfortunate enough to wander into his stall. I have seen him rip at one of the boys that helped Brenan catch him.

I have seen him do worse things than this. But Brenan does not believe me. He does not want to believe me. Aingeal is fast and fierce and large and beautiful, a horse that turns every eye. Brenan likes that attention, and so he refuses to listen to me when I say that Aingeal is going to kill someone. If he doesn’t kill Brenan first. And even if I was to tell him right now, he would not listen, because Aingeal has just won the race and Brenan is gloating. Aingeal prances across the sand, lifting his hooves up high.

To an untrained eye, Aingeal looks simply like a large, powerful show horse.

To someone who has grown up on Thisby, who works with _capall uisce_ every day, I can see that Aingeal is deadly. Kesley and Brenan exchange a few cheerful insults before Kesley says goodbye to me. Brenan grins, proud of his victory, and Aingeal pins his ears at Rúnda. I back Rúnda away. She is once more tense and quivering beneath me, although this time it has nothing to do with the ocean at her left side and everything to do with the horse in front of her.

She hates Aingeal as much as a _uisce_ can hate, and she bares her teeth and pins her ears and whips her tail. I keep backing her up, and Brenan keeps bringing him forward, talking about the horses on the beach. I want to talk to Brenan, but I want to get away from Aingeal, as fast as I can.

My excuse comes in the form of my employers. Sean and Puck have appeared on the beach, sitting astride Riley and Hurricane. Puck’s curly red hair blows free from her ponytail, and Sean’s fingers work tirelessly as he knots and circles and soothes Riley below him. I make an excuse and trot Rúnda down the beach, avoiding other _capaill_ when I can.

Neither Puck nor Sean smile when they see me, but I can tell they are not unhappy to see me, either. I watch as Sean watches the way the other riders ride and the way their mounts move and fight. It’s a fierce, dangerous dance between three.

The jockey, the _capall,_ and the sea.

Hurricane stands still and firm beneath Puck, though his nostrils are flared and his neck is arched in a way I know means the sea sings to him, calls to him, and he wants so badly to join it. But Puck keeps her fingers fisted in his mane, her fingers slick with her spit, and he stays put. Sean leans toward a restless Riley’s ear, singing a soft song I cannot hear the words too. Her mane is hung with tiny silver bells in groups of seven.

And that is when we hear the scream.

A stone gray stallion rears, hooves striking out at a large white shape. I recognize the stallion as Uaing, one of Malvern’s _uisce._ I recognize Aingeal as well, Brenan clinging to his back. But I do not recognize Uaing’s rider, who Aingeal rips from his saddle. Brenan has an iron in his hands in seconds and Aingeal drops his victim. The man rolls out of the way of sharp, heavy hooves. Blood is flowing down his black shirt, and I can’t tell if the wound is on his neck or his shoulder or his arm, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Kendrick!” The shout rings down the beach and Sean is gone in a second, Puck and Hurricane following a bite more slowly after him. I follow them, sick to my stomach.

Uaing is no longer interested in Aingeal, he is interested in his rider, who is lying on the sand, gripping his shoulder. Blood seeps down his arm. Uaing strikes before Sean can get there, his sharp teeth ripping into his rider. He already looks more serpentine, and I know even before Sean draws back that both stallion and rider are a lost cause.

Uaing vanishes into the sea. His rider is a red and black stripe on the sand.

And Aingeal is white, white, white against the red and the gray and the yellow of the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kesley's horse, Dorcha, is pronounced "dhur-khah". Brenan's horse, Aingeal, despite it meaning "angel" is pronounced "angle". And the gray horse that threw its rider (Uaing) is pronounced "oo-ang".

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, from what I can tell, Rúnda is pronounced both "RUne da" and "RUn da". However you pronounce it, in both instances the "ru" part is stressed.


End file.
